Shewouldsurvive. She—as Bromton often said—was an incurable firebrand. Which meantherheat came from within.
The carriage slowed, and she quietly stepped down into the shadows, careful to remain out of sight.
Outside.
In the rain.
Trying with all her might not to collapse into convulsing shivers.
…
Rayne lifted himself onto the back rail of the carriage, searching for the source of the gentle knocking that had roused him from a much-deserved,I-escaped-Southford-without-doing-anything-stupidslumber.
If he’d employed outriders or a footman, he wouldn’t have given the sound a second thought. Like any good sailor learned to roll with the waves, a seasoned traveler heard bumps, rattles, and knocks as music of the road. If anything, he was an expert traveler.
A dammed rolling stone—both by calling and by choice.
And nothing could convince him the sound that roused him from sleep had been one that belonged. The light knock had been persistent, as if a hand or a leg were repeatedly thumping against the back of the carriage.
To test, he knocked his knee against the coach. Yes. That was the sound, all right.
He’d opened his eyes to complete darkness—becoming aware first of the carriage’s gentle rocking, then of the rain and horse’s hooves, and then of the banging.
Staring into the night, he weighed how much time he’d lose if he called out to the postilion to stop. He remained silent. A strap had come loose, or a branch had gotten caught in the rail. Regardless, stopping before he’d traveled far enough away from Southford to be fully safe would be a bad idea.
Now he regretted that decision.
The straps were fastened, and no stray tree parts lodged in the rail or around his trunk.
Strange.
He hopped back down from the back of the coach, frowning. Something was off…he just couldn’t put his finger on what.
Another glow joined the shining reflection of his raised lamp.
“Lord Rayne, is it?” a woman asked.
“No.” His answer came instinctively. “That’s the crest, of course, but I’m his—er—cousin,” he said, though he didn’t have one. “Graham Laithe.”
Probably should have come up with a false name. Apparently, whatever had disturbed his slumber caused sluggish thinking, too.
The woman made ahumphing sound. “Jack said you was the earl himself. Well, no matter. Coin’s coin. All the same to me. Might I tempt you with a room, Mr. Laithe?”
“Afraid not, madam…?”
“Mrs. White,” she said. “Mr. White’s the owner of the inn. My son, Jack, runs the stables, though he takes a fare himself, now and again, just to keep sharp. My daughter, Carol, works the tavern. Allow me to at least send you on your way with a pint? Winter’s come on fast—you’ll be glad for some sustenance as the night drags on.”
The nighthadbecome menacing cold and wet. In his short time outside, chill had seeped into his bones. “What do you have on the stove?”
“Lamb stew—a finer one you’ll never taste,” Mrs. White said proudly.
His stomach sent him a disgruntled reminder he hadn’t eaten much at the wedding breakfast. Couldn’t have kept anything down, then.
He gazed through the window into the tavern room of the small inn. Were it not for the weather and the time of year, doubtless the place would be full. Instead, a single man sat hunched over his tankard.
Mrs. White’s eyes lit, sensing prey. “The roads are mighty muddied—and you wouldn’t want to get stuck. Not in this weather. The road follows the river for miles. Did I mention a lad brought back a report of a dam straining not more than a few hours north?”
Well, that settled the question. He didn’t exactly fancy being stuck. If a quarter hour inspecting the carriage had left him shivering, what would a—wait.
